The Princess Python
by Mirriam Q Webster
Summary: A scene of confrontation, done in a Monty Pythonesque style.


Disclaimer: I, of course, own nothing, being little more than a poor student. This is merely for entertainment and no offense is intended to those who actually created the inspiring works.

"Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father, prepare to die!"

"What?"

"Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!" the strange, sword-wielding maniac repeated even more loudly.

"What? Killed your father? I most certainly did not!" The plump Englishman drew himself upward. "I've never even met your father!

"Of course you did! At the company picnic last June, don't you remember?" The unusual assailant dropped his Spanish accent, revealing that he, too, was an Englishman. "Oh for the love of—Look, can't you just go along with it? It's supposed to be a dramatic juncture in the narrative."

"Well, I don't know really. I mean, prepare to die? You don't think that's a bit too dramatic?"

"Oh no, not at all. We're just going to slop a bit of red food dye on you and I'll pretend to run you through with this fake sword." He gestured with the sharply pointed, entirely sinister looking object.

"Well…if you're sure it's fake?"

"It is!"

"And I'm not really going to die?"

"No, no, not at all!"

"Well, all right then, I suppose…"

"Fabulous! Jolly good, jolly good. Now, where was I? Ah yes, I run down the stairs, burst into the room and shout. We'll take it from the top, then." So saying, he crossed the room and retreated up several stairs until he was out of sight. Then he ran forward, leaping down the three bottom-most stairs, dashed across the room, and swiftly cornered his portly opponent.

"Money! Offer me money!"

"Money! I thought you were going to do the bit about your father! You never said anything about me having to pay you!"

"No, no, no! It's drama! We're just expanding on the scene!"

"Oh," the shorter man looked slightly perplexed at that. "Well, what should I say then?"

"I don't know, improvise!" the taller man waved the hand not holding the suspiciously real-looking sword impatiently.

"Improvise? I don't know…"

"Oh come on, man! It's for art!"

"Well, I guess, I could do something…"

"Excellent! We'll try it again." He bounded back across the room and up the stairs. "Ready?" His voice floated to his 'victim'.

"Ready!"

Once again the swordsman came tearing into the room, this time leaping over a table and managing to dash three quarters of the items on the surface to the floor as well as pulling several muscles. He fancied that his pain-filled grimace made him look heroic and determined.

"I say, are you all right?" The second man was coming toward him.

"Fine! Just fine! We'll just go again, shall we?"

"If you think it's best."

"I do."

Once again the dramatic entry was repeated, although this time the swordsman took great care to go around the table and not to trip over any of the goblets rolling about on the floor.

"Money, offer me money!" the taller man shouted in a fake Spanish accent.

"Would you like some money? I've got plenty."

A pained expression, this time not from pulled muscles crossed 'Inigo's' face but he continued determinedly. "Offer me power!" he commanded.

"I'll pay your gas bill for the next year!"

"I haven't got gas, I've got electric heat."

"Oh. Well, I suppose I'll just do that, then."

"Errr, right. Erm. Offer me everything I ask for!" he shouted.

"I'll give you whatever you want!" The second man was clearly beginning to get into his role.

"I want my father back!" The sword slashed forward, making a long shallow cut across the victim's belly.

"But I'm not dead!" An old man had entered the room and was looking quizzically at the younger man who was clearly his son.

"Pop?" the swordsman exclaimed in surprise.

"Hey! I say! You actually cut me!" 'The wicked count' was clutching at his midsection and held up one bloody hand for inspection. "You said that was a fake sword!"

"Did I?"

"Yes, you did!"

"Erm, no I didn't!"

"Yes, you did!"

"I never!"

"Yes! Look, you ran in here the first time and you assured me that that was a fake sword and that you were going to use food coloring! Does this look like food coloring to you?" He waved his hand emphatically.

"Well, you were the one who wanted to do this whole thing."

"I was not!"

"Yes you were."

"I was not! You said it was for art!"

"It is for art."

"Slashing me is for art? What sort of a loony are you?"

"I'm not a loony, I'm an actor!"

"Yeah? Where's your director, then?"

"Well, I'm sort of between directors, at the moment."

"Right, sure. You ought to be locked up!"

"Well, erm, I, ah. That is to say…erm, good bye!" The eccentric assailant turned and ran out, leaving his victim and his father behind.

"I say, chap, your son is completely nutters!"

"Yes, I know. He's had this delusion about being a famous Spanish swordsman since he was a child. Not sure why, really. He keeps going on about avenging my death. It's very odd."

"I should say so! You should have him committed!"

"Committed? What on Earth for? Why spend the money when we can let him pretend he's an actor and bring in the occasional paycheck."

"Surely he can't get work like that?"

"Oh, sometimes."

"Amazing."

"Yes, it is rather. Look, I'm parched. Do you fancy a cup of tea?"

"Well, I suppose if you're offering I wouldn't mind."

"John," the older man offered his hand.

"Thomas."

"Charming to meet you. I know the nicest little café, it's not two blocks away from here…"

The two men exit, the younger still clutching his belly and staggering a bit from blood loss. As they walk toward the café, they pass the first man menacing a slightly confused newspaper lad with a sword. "Hello!" they hear. Very carefully, neither of them turn their heads, preferring instead to continue on in search of that English panacea, a hot cup of tea.

A/N: A tiny bit of whimsical effluvia that dribbled out of my ear and pecked itself out in the word-processing program. I posted it only because it made me smile.


End file.
